


In Focus

by freakylemurcat



Series: Two Good Mechs [13]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Bed Sex, Body Worship, Chases, Come Shot, Couch Sex, Doggy Style, Elevator Sex, Energy Field Sexual Interfacing, Exhaustion, Face-Fucking, Facials, Flirting, Floor Sex, Food Porn, Frottage, Heavy Petting, Long-Distance Relationship, Lust, M/M, Making Out, Missionary Position, Multiple Orgasms, Obsession, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Spark Sexual Interfacing (Transformers), Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Transformers Spark Bonds, Valve Fingering (Transformers), Valve Play (Transformers)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:55:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24239143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakylemurcat/pseuds/freakylemurcat
Summary: Jazz comes back from a work-trip to Protihex to find that Prowl has had far too long to dwell on things.(Things like Jazz' aft.)(And his mouth.)(And his soul.)
Relationships: Jazz/Prowl
Series: Two Good Mechs [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1316021
Comments: 12
Kudos: 156





	1. Chapter 1

The transport drew down in a slow arc over Iacon central, lurching slightly in the thermals rising from the busy streets. Jazz, who had been recharging lightly in a back seat, was jolted awake just in time to peer out at his own neighbourhood. 

Well, Prowl's neighbourhood really; Jazz was just crashing at his pad in an indefinite manner, putting on steel-brewed energon for the mech in the mornings and greeting him with a kiss when he came back from work. Avoiding talking about what exactly this arrangement was to either of them, that sort of thing.

From this level he could see the individual streets - there was that nice little cafe that did those silicon wafers that Jazz could eat his own frame-weight in, the one bar in town that Prowl could be persuaded to come out to, the slightly scruffy park where the market set up every so often. As the transport dropped further, he could even see the golden yellow paint of a mech leaning over to touch up the sign at the front of Sideswipe’s shop. 

For Jazz, this was how a plan often fell upon him - pure serendipity. He was a flexible mech in more ways than one; after all, who was he to say that the glimpse of Sunstreaker almost falling off a ladder wasn’t a sign from Primus that he should pay a visit to his erstwhile subordinates. Prowler despaired of this method, but he often smiled when he did it, to show that this was merely a foible that entertained him rather than truly irked. 

Jazz had been in Protihex for a few cycles, having picked up a decent gig there, and his travelling supplies were running low after all. Spending every night on stage meant he needed to be glammed up and so shiny it was difficult to look at him in a direct light, so his polish was feeling particularly light.

OK, it was Prowl’s polish. Jazz suspected he might have some apologies to make about stealing the last tin. He could start by buying a new one. 

* * *

Sunstreaker had retreated back inside the shop by the time Jazz ambled through the door, although he was still audibly grumbling around in the back about scratches to his finish. By the counter, Sideswipe was applying himself to a pair of datapads with a thoughtful expression; he looked up with a winning smile when he heard the door, which morphed to a knowing look when he saw who it was. 

“He already bought another tin,” he said. “Grumbling about someone’s sticky digits the entire time.”

“Well, hello to you too ‘Sides.” Jazz leant on the counter to call out, “Hey Sunny!”

The reply was barely audible but definitely rude. Jazz barked a laugh and hopped up to perch on the countertop, ignoring Sideswipe’s half-hearted noise of complaint. 

“I’m gonna be on the sofa for orns, Sides,” he said. “Orns! I’ve slept in more comfortable fox-holes. What d’ya recommend to save a mech some aching back-struts?”

“Depends how much that mech’s got to spend,” said Sideswipe, putting the datapads aside. Peacetime had been good to him and his twin, but Jazz did sometimes think that the merchant’s smile was similar to the bloodthirsty grin he had worn as a frontline warrior. 

“Business’s been good lately,” said Jazz. “I’ve gotta coupla spare credits to my name.”

Sideswipe ducked out from behind the counter, sweeping through the aisles of his small shop and returned with an armful of goodies which he laid out beside Jazz. “I think this probably covers the run from ‘grovelling subordinate’ to ‘woe-struck conjunx’,” he said, cheekily. “Pick what you want.”

Jazz gave him a half-sparked glare, but surveyed the supplies anyway. In the end he selected an expensive bottle of wax, a plush new cleaning cloth and a bottle of engex just because. Wherever that put him on the spectrum between grovelling and woe-struck, he didn’t care to think, but Sideswipe’s grin was irrepressible as he rang up the purchases. 

As Jazz handed over his credit stick, he received the ping of an incoming comm-call and stepped back to take it when he recognised Smokescreen’s calling code. 

“You better be back in Iacon,” said the mech shortly. “I can’t take another moment of this moon-struck fool.”

“You just dumped that poor mech, Smokey.” Smokescreen was a prolific dater, but not proving one for monogamy. “Give him a few cycles to cry it out and then tell him to hit the road,” advised Jazz, rolling his optics for Sideswipe’s benefit. 

“What? No, not him! Prowl!”

Jazz reset his optics in confusion. “Prowl? What’s wrong with him?”

"His tac-unit's on the fritz again," said Smokescreen. "And I'm guessing that he's been missing your aft for some reason, because it's all sorts of focussed on _you_."

The tac-unit wasn't quite a double edged sword: Jazz didn't think he had seen a weapon with quite as many edges as the battle computer had, perhaps some sort of spherical saw blade. It made Prowl simultaneously distractible and focussed, taciturn and curious, hot-tempered and cool-headed, withdrawn and obsessive. 

It didn't always quite function the way it was supposed to either - Prowl's tendency to fizz at the seams whenever his variables got too exciting was testament to this. Sometimes it picked up on something from Prowl's subconscious and went a bit overboard. 

"He's been extolling your virtues," added Smokescreen in a put upon voice, "For about two cycles now."

"Didn't think I had that many." 

"It's gotten repetitive," said Smokescreen dourly, "Until this morning, when he graduated to physical attributes."

"Ah ha," said Jazz. This was not an unknown side effect of the tac-unit, but one Jazz was happy to reap the benefits of. He had been away for too long.

"I've sent him home," continued Smokescreen, "I thought I should give you a few breems warning in case you need to do anything before you get trapped in the berth for the rest of the cycle." 

"Cheers, Smokey. I owe ya a drink." 

"You owe me a _bottle_." 

* * *

Sideswipe’s shop was almost halfway between the precinct and their flat. Jazz knew the route like the back of his own servo, as often as he had driven it, and he knew how long it took Prowl to drive it in a whole variety of moods. 

This gave him several breems to finish up his chat with Sideswipe, subspace his goods and stroll outside, just as the wail of a siren started to echo up the street. Most mechs wouldn’t hear a difference, but with Jazz’ specialist audials they were instantly recognisable - he had tuned them to perfection himself, set them to chords that consistently sent shivers down his back-struts. 

Moments later Prowl streaked past, lights flashing and sirens blaring, the roadway trembling with the roar of his pursuit engine at full blast. 

Jazz stepped out into the street, engaging his integral speaker systems to boost his voice, and called out, “Hey, copper!”

Even with one thing on his mind, Prowl wasn't the sort to ignore a potential call for help. His engine screeched into reverse to aid braking and he swung a sharp u-turn. Jazz could feel the moment enforcer grade scanner swept over his frame, and then Prowl flipped into root mode. 

"I thought you would be at home, in recharge," he said, pacing forward a few steps and pausing when Jazz coyly matched him backwards. 

"Caught a few winks on the transport instead." He stretched luxuriously; more than one set of optics zeroing on the stretch of his abdomen and the curl of his back. Prowl was torn between ogling him and glaring at the passers-by who were fortunate enough to be exposed to Jazz in a flirty mood. 

"Smokey sent me some interesting messages," continued Jazz, as if he wasn't aware that he now had an audience. "Said ya were a bit distracted for some reason?" 

Prowl's engines _snarled_.

"Oooh boy," said Sideswipe, who had stuck his helm out of his shop to listen in. "What'd you do?" 

"Existed," said Jazz merrily. Prowl was starting to advance again, optics sharp and focused, every movement controlled and smooth and _hungry_ . Jazz was gonna _get_ it. "I think he's got my bumpers on his brain." 

"Yuck," said Sideswipe, "I thought he was gonna beat you up." 

"Ooh, _somethin's_ gonna get beaten up if I'm lucky.” Jazz grinned, skipping back another step to keep himself out of lunging range. 

"Oh yuck yuck yuck." The merchant made a gesture like he was going to purge. "Urgh, take the foreplay elsewhere you perverts, Primus." 

So Jazz did. He leapt and twisted into his transformation sequence, darting sideways even before his seams had locked down, so he had a clear shot at the open road. It took Prowl a klik to follow, but it truly was only a klik as Jazz felt the nudge of a bull bar clatter against his rear quarter. All it did was give him a flirty wriggle of the rear end as he accelerated away. 

At these games they were well-matched - Jazz was agile and quick to make use of any shortcuts, Prowl was quicker and more than stubborn enough to keep up. Jazz had to find the cut throughs or he'd be caught easily on the extended straight aways; Prowl had to keep trying to herd him back to the long boulevards or risk losing his prey in the smaller winding streets. 

Not that Jazz was trying too hard to run. Prowl would catch him in the end - he just wanted to get close enough to home they were less likely to be fined for public indecency. 

Just to work his mate up a little further, he picked a circuitous route that doubled back on itself, making sure that on every corner they were so close he could feel the heat radiating from Prowl’s supercharged engine. Every time his siren whooped but he never called for his prey to stop, so Jazz was free to run. 

By the time their apartment block was on his scanners, Prowl was mechanometers from his bumper, siren wailing victoriously. Eking a few last jolts of speed from his engine Jazz gave himself enough breathing space to transform and slingshot himself through the lobby and into the lift. 

He hammered the door button as he did, swivelling just in time to see Prowl scrape through the closing doors and collide with him. 

Jazz was normally difficult to pin down and revelled in it, but Prowl was determined and skilled at holding weaselly suspects. 

Although maybe not quite like this, Jazz hoped. 

He had been slammed back into the rear wall, Prowl bearing down on him like an avalanche, one servo squeezing Jazz' wrists above his helm and the other cupping Jazz’ aft. He wrapped both thighs over Prowl's hips, so his position felt a little less precarious, and grinned. 

"Guess ya caught me," he said, testing the grip on his wrists and finding it unmovable.

"You wanted to be caught," rumbled Prowl, his optics ranging over Jazz' face like he wanted to memorise every angle of him. 

"I certainly ain't complainin’ right now." 

Prowl rumbled again, a whole frame sound that vibrated through Jazz' frame deliciously, and kissed him. Jazz moaned into the kiss, melting under the passion. He hitched himself in tighter, luxuriating in Prowl's field, hot with lust.

The lift was slow, but luckily no one else called for it. Jazz wouldn't have been bothered anyway; not with how Prowler was still kissing him, slow as oil and just as sweet. With how Prowl's servo was squeezing his aft, Jazz doubted that he would allow them to be interrupted either. Even the arrival of the lift at their floor barely distracted them. 

"Think this is our stop," murmured Jazz eventually, against Prowl's mouth. "Unless you wanna get real adventurous on me…" 

The mech’s field trembled with indecision, but in the end his common sense won out against his libido. He eased his weight off Jazz, letting him set his pedes back to the floor, but it took Jazz slipping out from between him and the wall to get Prowl to move. He trailed after Jazz, fingers entwined tightly and his whole frame nearly trembling. Jazz lured him along the corridor to their front door, unlocking it remotely and slipping inside. 

In the sanctity of their home, Prowl let his grasp slip away and leant heavily against the door. When Jazz looked askance at him, he ex-vented shakily. 

"If you do not want… this," he said, "Make it known now. For cycles I have thought of little but you and.." He made a grasping gesture, like he wanted to snatch Jazz up and possess him totally. 

Well, he wasn’t the only mech who had been without for some time, nor the only one who had had time to dwell over what they were missing. Jazz had whiled away the spare moment between gigs remembering the rumble of Prowl's engine, and the pull of his mouth when he overloaded. He had no tac-unit to warp his focus, but he had always loved playing with fire.

"Prowler," he purred, dropping his vocaliser into the smoothest, sultriest purr he could manage. "Mech, come frag me."

Prowl leapt on him, a full force lunge that brought them both down to the floor. He kissed him so hard he nearly split Jazz’ lip on a sharp denta, snarling something in the affirmative. Jazz pushed up into the pressure as hard as he could, nipping back until Prowl growled at him. 

“Grumpy since you ain’t been gettin’ any, huh?” he teased, just because he couldn’t resist. It earned him a dark look and more of Prowl’s weight pressing down on him. 

“I’m going to frag you,” said Prowl, in a low tone that made Jazz’ spark feel about four sizes too big in his chamber, “Until you are a sobbing wreck, only capable of begging for more.”

“Promises...” said Jazz, laying the unnecessary bait with glee.

Sometimes Jazz’ big mouth got him in trouble; sometimes he was rather counting on it. This was one of those times. Prowler had the positional advantage and some tricky enforcer skills, and both of those equated Jazz being flipped onto his front before he even knew it. A servo landed hard on his aft as he pushed himself up onto hands and knees, and then Prowler’s weight was draped over his back before he even had time to yelp a complaint.

“Open those panels,” Prowl snarled. He was a burning hot weight, vents spitting boiling air and static sizzling where his cables ran closest to the surface. He barged his own knees between Jazz’ own, making him spread his thighs further, and one of his servos groped over the codpiece. When asked so nicely, Jazz could only obey and he gasped as Prowl sunk two digits deep into his valve the klik his plating had flipped back. 

“Ah!” He was already warm and ready, only warming more as Prowl fragged him expertly, rubbing every node until he was panting. His Prowler was too good with his servos, knew exactly where to touch him to make him sing out. Thoroughly distracted, he hadn’t noticed when Prowl had snapped his own codpiece open, but the moment his digits withdrew the blunt tip of a spike pushed deep abruptly and he gasped again. “Holy frag!”

Damn, Prowler was pent up! He went hard immediately, pounding in, gripping Jazz’ hips to haul him back into every thrust, and somehow it didn’t seem enough for him. Pressing in deep, he leant forward and pulled at Jazz’ elbows, dragging them back until they almost touched behind his back. It was on the verge of possible even for Jazz; his back arched, chest thrust out, the weight of his frame off balance and forced back further onto Prowl’s pelvis. But it did drive Prowl’s spike right into a ceiling node, and _dear Primus_ , the first thrust made Jazz’ vocaliser squeal. 

Prowl didn’t pause, just set up a steady rhythm that had his pelvic armour clattering noisily to Jazz’ aft. Combined with the involuntary squeaks that were being driven out of him by that spike stroking his mesh the exact right way, Jazz was very grateful that he’d insisted on soundproofing the joint. When Prowl got him like this, it was nigh impossible to control his vocaliser. 

He moaned shamelessly with every thrust, bowing his head down to ease some of the strain along his back-struts, only to throw it back when Prowl scored another direct hit on his nodes. His digits were clenching and stretching compulsively, just about able to scrabble over Prowl’s belly plating but never able to get a good grip. Every part of him sizzled with voltage already but he wouldn’t give Prowler the satisfaction of calling out for him just yet; he bit into his lower lip and choked down his louder sounds. 

Not that Prowl was unaffected either - his systems were roaring, vents whistling under the strain of his fans. His field was alight with pleasure, twining through Jazz’ own like a mirror image. Every part of him was focused on destroying Jazz’ self-control, fulfilling his goal to have his lover wailing for him. He tugged back even harder on his grip, so Jazz could feel his shoulder gimbals shift further back, to get a little more leverage into every thrust.

“Oh frag!” The words escaped involuntarily. Every hard thrust was now nosing directly into the plump mesh of his anterior plexus, where the sensory cables wove together up the front of his valve. It radiated up his spinal struts, throbbed down into direct pulses in his anterior node. He would have given several important pieces of armour to be able to reach down and stroke himself in tandem, but Prowl held him firm so he was forced to wait, panting out further curses as every slide home drove his charge up higher. “Dear Primus, Prowler..!”

“That’s it,” snarled Prowl, vocaliser layered with hot static. He essayed a few brutal slow thrusts, grinding in deep until Jazz whined again. “Overload for me.”

Jazz always melted for a gravelly, lust-ridden voice - always, _always_ did and damnit Prowler knew it - and this time was no exception. The boiling sweep of overload coursed up his frame, all-encompassing and overwhelming. HIs valve clenched and flexed, rippling with Prowl’s slow thrusts, sending fluid bolts of pleasure to add to his overload. 

“Holy slag…” he moaned, his pleasure audible with the skips in his vocaliser. “Ooh, don’t stop…”

With his leverage on Jazz’ back, Prowl pushed him down, so he was face first on the floor. The metal was a cool relief on his overheated face plates, helping to eke away some of the fuzzy static after such a quick overload. When his elbows were released they splayed out at his sides, and it took his overclocked processors a moment to coordinate the effort to bring them up to brace against the weight over his hips. 

Prowl kept going, shuffling forward to straddle Jazz’s hips a little more so his spike remained on target, and fragged him with short sharp thrusts that made his knees quake. He loved being ridden long past his overload, until his systems were bubbling with the shocks of his first climax and starting to shake with an oncoming fresh one. Pinned like he was, with Prowler bracing one hand between his shoulder blades and the other gripping the inside of his thigh to keep his aft high, he could slither one of his freed arms down under his frame and up to the crux of his thighs. 

Under his digits his node throbbed fiercely, a thumping tempo to echo the pounding his valve was getting. When he slid his servo up further, he could feel the thick girth of Prowl’s spike plunging in deep, slick droplets of his lubricant drawn out on each backstroke, the mesh of his valve lips plump and sensitive from the friction. The heel of his hand ground against his node like this, his fingers bracing the spike pumping into his mesh, giving Prowl a little more pressure. 

The mech’s field was roiling with charge now, like being immersed in a supernova, all of it focused on Jazz’ frame in supplication below him. The sensation was crushing, overwhelming; Jazz was addicted, utterly and totally at Prowl’s mercy, whining out his designation as a second overload swept up and over him. With a few last hard thrusts, Prowl snarled his own climax, burying himself deep in his lover’s flexing, soaked meshes to pump out his transfluids. 

“Oooh…” Jazz squirmed under the sensation, heat pooling in his belly. He could feel the throb of Prowl’s overload through the digits braced over his spike, the pulse and ripple of the protoform beneath the platelets. The sensation was uniquely satisfying, and Prowler barely needed to hold him to keep him pinned. 

With the last of his climax spent, Prowl shifted back, lifted his weight off Jazz’ back. When his spike slipped free on a final backstroke, transfluid seeped out of his slack calipers. Droplets oozed between his digits to puddle on the floor, and Jazz wriggled in well-used glee; whenever you needed a trip to the wash-racks after, you knew that the ‘facing had been good. 

“Don’t go too far,” warned Jazz, feeling the cold air start to seep over his frame as Prowler rested back on his heels. He shimmied over onto his back, keeping his thighs spread to encourage Prowl to settle back over him again - and also because his valve ached in a deliciously well-used way. Obediently Prowl leant down, bent to press the centre of his chevron to Jazz’ forehead; a tender gesture that made something in Jazz’ spark jolt. To avoid the feeling he immediately resorted to flirty glibness. 

“Ain’t quite fulfilled your promise,” he teased, resetting his vocaliser a few times first to clear the strain-induced wheeze. “‘Cause I ain’t beggin’ yet.”

“Ah, but I am not even close to being done with you,” said Prowl, his tone laden with dark, sultry promise, optics still lit with obsessive hunger. 

Well, wasn’t that just what Jazz had been hoping for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably going to need to mop that floor down lads. Once you're done, of course.


	2. Chapter 2

Prowl loomed over Jazz, just as predatory as he had ever seen him. Their first clinch had taken some of the edge off the light in his optics, but his only focus remained Jazz. 

Jazz had no complaints being the centre of attention, especially when it was from a handsome, charged-up Prowler. He craned upwards for a kiss, pulling him down with arms around his shoulders to a slow, sensual embrace, glossae entwined. 

“Come on,” purred Prowl, when the kiss broke apart. He nipped at Jazz’ lower lip and drew back slowly, drawing Jazz with him to sit up. “Let’s find somewhere more comfortable.”

Jazz managed to get his pedes underneath him and followed obediently, letting Prowl pull him up to standing with hands roving over his hips and aft. 

“Keep gropin’ me like that,” he crooned, pushing into the touch, “And we’re gonna end up goin’ at it on the floor again. Unless ya think the wall looks more comfy?”

“If you are going to give me sass,” said Prowl, “Then I shall have to find a way to occupy your mouth.”

Jazz merely grinned, purposely running his glossa over a sharp dentae; Prowl watched the motion hungrily, with no evidence of discomfit, and grasped Jazz’ hands to lead him further into the apartment. 

Only that morning Jazz had been concerned he was going to end up sleeping on the sofa. Instead he was led to it with coaxing hands and pulled onto Prowl’s lap and groped instead. There were hands on his aft, his thighs, running up his belly to hook under his bumper. Prowl’s optics glowed brightly again, static fuzzing at the edges where his charge still ran high. He would have had to be running hot for cycles, Jazz realised, to still have this much charge.

Pleased, he wriggled closer, bumping their chests together as he reached out to press his palms to Prowl’s doorwings. Prowl moaned at the touch, flared his wings up a little higher so Jazz could reach more of him even as he ran hungry servos over his frame in turn. It was like an old fashioned heavy petting session, the likes of which Jazz hadn’t had for a long time. Right then he couldn’t quite think why they didn’t do this more often. It was slagging hot to be grinding in Prowl’s lap, strong hands all over his frame, breathing deep kisses against each other, slow and raunchy. He could feel the slick wetness of his own lubricants and Prowl’s transfluids dripping from his valve, running down his inner thighs where Prowl’s exploring digit tips wet themselves, smeared spirals down his paintwork. 

Against his pelvis, Jazz could feel the still firm length of Prowl's spike start to stiffen even further. If he tilted his hips forward just right - leant up just a little - he could slide his valve against the firm platelets, initially a soft grind just to help encourage interest again. Prowl rocked his hips up too, and they found a slow pace together. It was almost a nice extra on top of the lazy roaming of hands, trailing over plating and squeezing pliable cables. 

When Jazz leant in further, slid his hands up Prowl’s back to really massage deeply over his wing joints, he could elicit deep groans and flickers of strut-deep pleasure through the mech’s field. It seeped through into his own, an electromagnetic balm over his sensornet, and for once he let his own field loose a little. They both kept themselves to themselves so much, it felt more than a little strange to be so open to another. 

Jazz rather liked it. It was like swimming in an ocean of static, every tiny sensor over his plating and in the delicate makeup of his electromagnets humming with the wavelength of lust and pleasure. When he dug his digits into the pressure spots at the base of Prowl’s doorwings, it echoed across his armour: when he ground his hips back and forth, rubbing the mess of his valve over Prowl’s now thick more-than-readied spike, he earned waves of wretched want that made his protoform clench. 

“Prowler,” he moaned, shivering at the effect even his voice had on the mech’s field. "Mech, ya got me feelin'  _ good _ ." 

"Gorgeous,” growled Prowl, “So gorgeous. Come grind against me, show me how beautiful you are overloading.”

His anterior node rubbed so perfectly along the top of Prowl’s spike, just the right size to grind over. He could only hitch his hips down so hard for fear of damaging either of them, but at this point Jazz didn’t need much more to encourage his climbing charge. All he really needed was the push and rub of thumbs in the gaps of his hip joints, tweaking wires until they pinged. With a gasp - his visor glitching off entirely - he overloaded, writhing down to keep the pressure on his node. Each little twitch of his hips set off further fireworks along his sensornet, and it all seemed to take a long time to fade. 

After reality dawned, it was not hard to be overly aware of the heat rising off the frame he was stride. Prowl was still boiling with lust, his field awash with pride and delight and enjoyment of the sight he had witnessed. Drawn to his aching expression, Jazz stroked a high cheekbone with his thumb, trailed digits over a strong chin and open, soft lips. 

“Did I pass muster?” he purred. 

“Even better than I had expected,” said Prowl. His spike was still a solid hot weight, bobbing gently against Jazz’ valve mesh. “You’re still giving me sass though...”   


Slightly befuddled by overload, Jazz’ processors took a few nano-kliks longer than normal to process the hint. When realisation dawned, he jolted in place and then grinned sharply. 

“Ya know me, can’t stop my big mouth gettin’ me in trouble.” He slithered back a little, letting his pedes drop to the floor and then easing to his knee-pads in between Prowl’s spread thighs, that delicious spike just at the right height to nuzzle. “Think you could stop me?”

Prowl’s servo dropped to Jazz’ helm, his charge too high and field too wild to engage with much more banter; he cupped an audial horn in exactly the right way, avoiding the sensitive microphone at the tip, and merely encouraged Jazz’ mouth to where he wanted it. 

There was no point engaging in the teasing foreplay Jazz would have normally subjected him too; licking up the underside, maybe pausing to suck and mouth the biolights bulging amid the warm skin of platelets. Instead, he swallowed him down almost to the base in one, vents hitching as the back of his intake was breached. Salt rich fluid rinsed over his oral chemoreceptors, with a tang of the sweet oiliness of his own lubricants. The cocktail was not unpleasant, and Jazz worked hard to encourage another spurt of tangy salt over his glossa. 

If he had been sucking spike as normal, he would have cast his optics up beseechingly as well, taken his time to pretend to work out the spots that always made Prowl squirm. He knew them all like the back of his servo already, had explored this part of his frame in excruciating detail. For example, running a thumb up the edge of his right pelvic plate made his engine rev, and the second from bottom spike node was extra sensitive to the flat of a glossa pressed against it in just the right way. He trialled both at the same time to delightful results, the mech squirming against his seat and squeezing his grip tighter.

Too much of one thing was a good way to get the mech distracted, so Jazz mixed it up - swallowing him down fully one moment and then bobbing his helm shallowly over the very tip the next. Around him the air swam with electromagnetic heat, and to Jazz’ delight he could practically read what Prowl liked best out of the air. 

Every movement of his mouth, the push and pop of the blunt tip surging into his throat and pulling back to leak salt over his tongue, drove the palpable charge higher and higher. Jazz could almost count down to the moment when he just knew that Prowler would finally lose it; his mouth almost watered at the thought. 

But at the last klik, Prowl pulled him up and back, so the thick spurts of transfluids landed over Jazz’ face. His chin, his lips, his cheeks were well decorated by the time Prowler was a panting heap of a mech, and then, just to be cruel, he leant forward and lapped the last traces off his spike with a quick tongue. The noise Prowl made was a beauty, deep and satisfied, echoed wholly by his field. When the last ebbs were finished his soft grip on Jazz’ horn released, and instead he stroked a digit down Jazz’ cheek instead, gathering up the mineral heavy fluid. With every sign of enjoyment, Jazz lapped it up as the finger slid into his mouth; it took some time before Prowl seemed satisfied his faceplates were cleaned. 

Only then did Jazz get a good chance to look up at his lover, leaning his helm on a thigh he hadn’t realised was trembling until now. His poor Prowler looked shattered; optics dim and engine running unevenly. Even his field had faded in intensity slightly, but it still dripped palpable satisfaction. Jazz wasn’t feeling much more lively - his systems were pinging warnings regarding his energy levels and his visor was still intermittently glitching, painting the world in brief splashes of infrared. 

“I think we’re gonna need us some fuel, Prowler,” he said. His hydraulics seemed to be struggling to maintain pressure, so Jazz had to half-lever himself up by using Prowl’s still shaking knees. When had the kitchen gotten so far from the sofa? Somehow, Prowl also heaved his frame into motion, seemingly unable to let Jazz get more than a few steps away just yet.

The fuel in the dispenser was only low to mid grade, and barely room temperature. They had some good high-grade stashed in a drawer, but Jazz was in the mood for something even higher energy and hot. Finally he recalled the bottle of engex he had bought only a few joors early, still tucked in his subspace and almost certainly half-boiled from the temperatures he had recently reached. 

It was worth the price he had paid, from just the first sip. Heady, concentrated energy surged into his tanks, a bit like drinking a lightning strike, and the first warnings of poor energy levels cancelled off his systems. He passed the bottle over, so Prowler could also take a hit of the fermented fuel. It seethed and fizzed in the bottle as Prowl took a couple strong swallows and some of the faded light seemed to ease back into the mech’s optics from only those few mouthfuls. 

“This is good stuff,” said Prowl, reading the label with a distracted optic and taking another swig. “Was this a treat?”

“Meant to be an apology,” said Jazz, belatedly recalling the reason he had bought the stuff in the first instance. “For nickin’ your best polish.”

“Hmmm.” Prowl’s gaze roamed back to Jazz, and dear Primus, how pent up had the mech been? Jazz almost felt bad about leaving him to get to this state, but then again who would ever imagine staid, tight-laced Prowl could get so worked up? He was already moving back into Jazz’ space to push him up against a countertop, all self-confident strut and enviable grace, the bottle still loosely held in his servo. “I’ll accept your apology on one condition.”   


“And that is?” Ah, hell. Jazz wasn’t much better. Every time Prowler made moves on him like this he went all weak at the knees. 

Weaker. His hydraulics hadn’t even managed to reach full pressure yet. He was a goner, but what a slagging way to go! 

“I get to lick this engex off your headlights,” said Prowl.

He hadn’t even had to think about his answer. Jazz leaned his elbows back against the counter, making sure his bumper really jutted out. “Well, if that’s what it’ll take…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might also need to replace that sofa. Is dry-cleaning a thing on Cybertron or is everything conveniently easy-to-wipe-down metal?


	3. Chapter 3

The drip of the engex down his collar faring and over the curve of his chest tingled slightly, fizzed as it reacted briefly with the air. Prowl's tongue followed, warm and curious, lapping into all those little seams and crevices that just didn't get the right attention normally. 

Jazz leant back on the countertop and just let Prowler do as he wanted. Prowl just had him right where he wanted him, and Jazz still felt groggy from his previous overloads - he couldn't imagine how he might manage another but Prowl seemed determined. 

"Mmf!" A squeak escaped him when a fresh spill was drizzled over his left headlight, cooling in the air. The charge from the fuel briefly made the bulb light and flicker out, and Prowl was drawn in like a fragging zapmoth. Jazz didn't even try to muffle his yelp when the process was repeated over the right, nor when clever digits wriggled into the underside of his bumper to do something devilish with his wires. 

The next pour pooled engex over his neck cables, the dissipating energy making his vocaliser skip, and Prowl’s mouth only worsening the distortion. Prowl was not satisfied until every drop of energon was licked up, every wire sizzling with static. He tipped the bottle against Jazz’ mouth, just enough to wet the glossae, and then licked his way in there too, the sour-sweet burn of the fuel traded from mouth to mouth. 

“Tastes even better this way,” said Prowl. He was definitely starting to look a little brighter to Jazz' slightly distracted optics, and his focus was dialling back in on getting into Jazz’ panels someway or another. Certainly, his spare hand was toying with the back seam of Jazz’ aft panel, his de-pressurised spike starting to harden again. Jazz secretly thanked Primus he tended towards using his valve more, because even with the concentrated energy of the engex he didn’t think his spike would manage coming to life for a third time. 

“You would think it tastes good lickin’ it offa my pedes.”   


“Off every inch of you,” said Prowl, crowding in a bit more and cupping his spare hand more to lift Jazz’ thigh and wrap it over his own hip. “I’d pour it over your valve and spend the cycle cleaning you up.”

There was just enough left for Jazz to ‘accidentally’ tip it over his chest again, so Prowl moaned and dove in, this time lapping broad strokes over the central seam across his chest. It made him sigh, little skips of pleasure hitting him deep in his core. This close to his spark his field was stronger, and Prowl lathed him with every sign of his own pleasure, echoing through the electromagnetics. His spike was titanium hard against Jazz’ belly by now. In this sort of position before, Jazz would have just dropped down to his knees and sucked the mech off then and there, but the exertions of before made him slightly concerned if he knelt down they might end up recharging on the kitchen floor. 

He put on his huskiest, sultriest voice, the one that made Prowl’s processors stall. “Let’s go to bed, Prowler?”

The noise that Prowler made in response was gratifying but nowhere close to how much yearning lust billowed through his field. He pulled Jazz in close, hands roaming the small of his back and up over his shoulders as if he could pull Jazz into his frame. 

"Yes, " he whispered, "Let's."

* * *

Their path was a roundabout, messy one, broken by pauses to pin one another up against the nearest surface and re-entwine. It was always a difficulty to pull away, even if they never made it very far apart. 

At the foot of the berth - perfectly made given that Prowl had been occupying it alone - Prowl reeled Jazz in again. 

"How do you want it?" purred Prowl, nuzzling into the cables of Jazz' neck to get to that spot that he knew made Jazz' engine rev. 

"Oh, I get to choose now?" He managed, even as he had to cling to Prowl's shoulders to keep himself upright. He got a sharp bite for his troubles. "Ah! All right, all right!" He took Prowl's helm in his servos, to draw him face to face. "On my back, on the berth, you over me so I can see when ya overload this time. How bout it?" 

His answer was a well executed push which had him flat on his back on the berth in nanokliks. Prowl remained standing, looking smug as he visibly eyed up his lover. Well, if he wanted a pretty picture, Jazz would deliver with gusto - he bent a knee up to expose his well used valve, slipping a servo down to cup and play with the mesh until fresh slick dripped onto his digits. By now Prowl looked like he might pop a fuse, so Jazz laid it on extra thick, easing one then two digits into himself and barely having to play up his moan at the touch on his tender nodes.

"Hey Prowler," he called, "Bet I feel real good inside.. Not gonna have a go?" 

By now Prowl was looming, optics ravenous and field entwining deeply with Jazz' own. Jazz couldn't imagine how much self control it must take for him to bare his pressurised spike again and then just let it settle against the crux of Jazz' hip, not rutting and thrusting. 

"You want it?" Prowl challenged him, "Then you take it."

Jazz was not a mech to let ego stand in the way of a good time, especially not when his valve ached with emptiness, every node twinging the right side of pain. Not when such a delicious treat was so close, dripping trails of silver against the groove of his hip. All he needed to do was shuffle his aft to the side a little, cock his hips up and try to hide the twitch as the ridged underside of Prowl's spike bumped onto his anterior node. 

"Keen," purred Prowl, sounding smug but also not able to hide the forward twitch of his hips at the slick contact with Jazz' mesh. "That's what you want isn't it?" 

"Well, yeah!" Jazz stuck his glossa out cheekily, reaching down to align the spike with his goal. "What was it ya wanted earlier - me beggin for ya?" He wriggled a bit downwards so the blunt tip nuzzled deeper into the petals of his valve. "Do ya think I'm close?" 

"I think you are," said Prowl, solemnly. As he slowly eased his hips forward, he was forced to bite his lip to maintain his stoic expression, but his field could not be controlled so easily and Jazz groaned under the onslaught of pleasure. "Maybe I should go slow, torment you until you do." 

Two could play that game; Jazz hooked up a leg around Prowler's waist, only showing a small display of his strength to encourage Prowl a little deeper. "Go slow and I'll shut my vocaliser off," he said, baring his teeth. "I'll  _ scream _ for ya if ya frag me hard though." 

That temptation was enough; Prowler sank deep in one strong hard thrust, just right to make Jazz' back struts bow and his vocaliser shriek. He kept the pace high, every thrust a plunge deep, and Jazz had to reach up over his own helm to brace against the sheets.

Prowl's field remained unsettled; hungry, searching for something else that not even bending Jazz nearly in two to be able to kiss him could deliver

"Merge with me?" Prowl asked. "Please, Jazz?" 

Oh boy. Normally Jazz would coyly flirt his way out of a request like that, but right now, with Prowl's spike hitting that delicate node right at the top of his valve and that big field wrapped around him Jazz would just about do anything for a little bit more. It was Prowler after all: if Jazz could trust anyone with the contents of his slightly grubby soul, it would be his Prowler. 

He groaned his ‘yes’ into Prowl's mouth, whining distraught when the mech sat up and moved those too kissable lips away from him and restarted that deep plunging pace that made his knees quiver.

He sensed the click and hiss of plates moving before he heard or saw them. Prowl was damned gorgeous above him, pulling him deeply into each thrust forward so every single one of his calipers was stretched wide and very node stroked, and he was almost so distracted by the sight and the pleasure that he missed the glimmer of sparklight at Prowl's chest. But then the plates slid back and the chamber was bared, corona spilling out of the dark crystal chamber in lashing waves, and Jazz was hypnotised. The wisps were white and blue and gold like a fantastic aurora, straining out for something like they had a mind of their own. 

On instinct, driven by some mad desire, he felt the tight locks on his own chest plates release. The feeling of air deep onto his internals was shocking, cooling his overheated frame and throwing off a fog of hot steam. Prowl must have leant in for a closer look, changing the angle of his movement so every bruising thrust landed on that high node again and made Jazz choke on his own ventilations. 

"Oh Primus!" He tried to wail, but his vocaliser spat static and jolts. "Prowler! Please!" 

"That's it," snarled Prowl, triumphant. Jazz could just about focus enough to see the petals of his spark chamber spiral open, baring the dense glow of light inside. "Say my name again!" 

Jazz obeyed, whining and clutching at the hands gripping his thighs, calling for Prowl in increasingly desperate tones as instinct winds open his own chamber and dear Primus, his  _ soul _ was on  _ display _ . 

It was far hotter than it had any right to be. 

"Beautiful," murmured Prowl, his hips slowing into a devastatingly slow pace. He leant in, leant down, and Jazz spread his thighs wider, wrapped his legs around Prowler's neat back, so he could settle down over him and… 

It was like a supernova, like hitting top speed and finding a little more left in you, like a perfect play of a complex song. Jazz' helm dropped back on the sheets, his fingers clutching into thick armour, and all he could do was  _ feel _ . He could feel the heat and desperation of his own frame, the strut deep fullness and ache, but he could also feel a different hunger, a wild desperation and the clutch of a tight hot frame against and around him. He could feel Prowler - a burning bright force of nature, quick and determined and sharp as a knife - and the strange transmitted echo of his own soul. 

For some time they were one, a single frame, tied up in pleasure and wrapped up in each other. Somewhere there must have been a physical overload - distantly Jazz could feel his frame shudder in great convulsive waves - but the spark-deep connection surpassed everything else. And anyway, there was not so much a ‘him’ anymore, but a ‘them’, where there was no boundary between Prowl and Jazz, no brakes on the energy that pulsed back and forth in a crescendoing wave until climax struck. 

* * *

Consciousness might be overrated, Prowl thought as he swam back to the surface of awareness. His helm ached with the dentae-grinding discomfort of having the tacunit churning away for extended periods, and now with it firmly off, he felt groggy in comparison. It would fade, but for the first few breems he regretted a lot of things.

His optics resisted onlining for some moments, but then they booted to find himself staring up at the ceiling. Deep in his chest, there was a stirring sensation, like a flicker of relief that didn’t belong to him. 

"Wakey wakey," teased Jazz' soft voice. Prowl tilted his head and found his lover perched on the edge of the bed beside him, plating covered in a lovely sheen of dewy condensation. He was sipping a translucent cube of coolant, and as he took another mouthful Prowl could feel the cooling relief spread down his own throat. 

"Did we-?" He asked. 

"Oh yeah." Jazz grinned. "Must've been a good'un, cause I remember mergin’ and then woke up six joors later with your snorin’ carcass on toppa me." Prowl could feel it wasn't as inconvenient as the words might suggest. 

Prowl hummed and settled down into the sheets again. The ache was receding somewhat, and with it his helm was clearing; he was left feeling warm and contented and satisfied. The only thing that could make him feel better, he thought, would be to have Jazz tucked up against his flank.

He hadn't thought anything close to domestic bliss would be achievable. Past lovers had made it clear he was independent to the point of detachment, and that under stress he had… personality issues. Then there had been the war, and then the peace which had ironically been more chaotic than the fighting had ever been. But here, with Jazz' quicksilver thoughts brushing against his own, close enough to reach out and touch, Prowl had found something too good to let go. They had fallen into an easy pattern with each other, and maybe some might look askance at their relationship. But then they had never woken up to Jazz brewing them a cup of pressed energon after his night shift, nor bought multiples of his favoured polish because he knew that Jazz would inevitably forget his own. 

Mistaking his deep thoughts for pensiveness, Jazz said, "I called your precinct and Smokescreen said he'd already asked you to be signed off a coupla cycles." He grinned. "I don't know about you but it'll be a bit before I'm walkin’ right again." 

"Mmh," he said, "I may have over exerted myself a touch." 

Jazz winked at him. "Ain't no wonder, mech, you were a well oiled machine! Mind you towards the end there, I was pretty well oiled too." He cast himself backwards over Prowl's legs dramatically, somehow not spilling his coolant. "Your tanks gotta be runnin' on empty by now, considering the state of my valve." 

Long inured to Jazz' lewd chat - Prowl liked to save it for the act itself, but Jazz could cackle filth at him at a moment’s notice - he chuckled and took the coolant to drink the last mouthfuls, tossing the cube to the side.

They fell to comfortable silence, Jazz’ presence a warm soothing syncopation around Prowl's spark. Prowl didn’t need his tacunit to get overly involved in a topic, and his processors kept cycling the evidence again and again. 

"Jazz," he said after a while, breaking the peace. "Will you stay with me?"

Jazz' optics popped online to look askance at him. There was no way he couldn't have recognised the question for what it was, given how deeply they were still enmeshed, but the suddenness caused him to instinctively dodge the question. "Yeah mech, ain't got no gigs for a while. What's happenin’ in that pretty helm of yours?"

"No," he said. "I mean will you  _ stay _ with  _ me _ ? Together,” he added, just in case Jazz would have another attack of trying to pretend he was stupid. He was lucky that Prowl often found it charming.

There must have been something in it, perhaps in the frequency of his spark or the wide open layers of his field, that was unignorable. Jazz' visor lit up brightly as his optics widened beneath, and he wriggled up to sit at the edge of the berth again.

"Mech," he said, vocaliser straining to get to the calm registrar he had used to talk warshocked mecha from offlinong themselves. "I know we got some residual spark connection here, but maybe you might wanna elaborate? So'z I don't get the wrong idea?"

Without the tacunit, Prowl needed a moment to organise his thoughts and argument carefully, but it seemed a fairly simple decision - to him at least. "I believe we have found a good partnership in each other. I have your support and your good nature to depend on; I hope you find with me a place of stability and calm. It is a rare cycle without your presence that I enjoy, as this behaviour after your trip should demonstrate, and should show how attractive I find you. I find this arrangement far too pleasant to want to lose it without a fight. So I think we should make it formal, you and me." 

“I… You…You say the most romantic things to me Prowler, in the least romantic ways.” Jazz tried to disguise his shock with an attempt at humour, but the glibness fell flat. Prowl just watched him in patient silence. It only took a few moments for him to continue, spark churning as it was with confusion and worry and not inconsiderable delight."What brought this on?" 

Prowl touched his chest plates, where deep in his spark chamber the core of him was keeping time with another spark across the berth. As if on instinct, Jazz mimicked the gesture, digits trailing over the imperceptible seam of his plating. There really wasn't much more explanation than that.

"Just like that?" Jazz' expression was torn but his soul sang out for Prowl’s to hear. When he spoke, he seemed to be more trying to persuade himself than Prowl. “I ain’t all that great a catch, mech.” 

That much might be true. They were both grown mechs with well-ingrained foibles. They had been through war together, both of them done things that sometimes made it hard to look in a mirror. They had lost too many things, some of them too near and dear to leave anything but a scar. Prowl’s tac-unit glitched him at inopportune times and he let his words colour with chilly terseness far too often; Jazz rarely slept a full night-cycle through for recharge fluxes and he approached life with an irritating casual glibness because if he had to take one thing seriously, then he had to take the whole thing seriously and there was too much mech-blood on his hands for that. 

Prowl knew he didn’t mind. “Neither am I. That has never mattered between us, Jazz. We might be bad catches, as you say, but I want you to be mine.” He paused and added. “As I want to be yours.”

Jazz looked at him for a long, long time, and Prowl could sense the maelstrom of his spark slowly evening out into a deep, crisp rhythm, like the beat of a huge drum. “Mech, ya got some sorta magic for makin’ me see the clarity in things." He said finally, and there was relief colouring his voice. "So we might be better together. Or, hell, we might be worse. But I guess I do like the sound of the ‘together’ bit.”

They didn’t say much more about it. Words seemed a bit cheap somehow, here where Prowl could still feel the ebb and flow of Jazz’ spark halfway across the berth. But it was obvious enough, because for every pulse of Jazz’ spark, Prowl’s echoed it point-to-point and vice-versa, both orbiting the same pivot that seemed to sit directly between them regardless of how far away they were from each other. 

“Wanna hop in the washracks with me?” said Jazz finally, a soft little smile on his lip plates that was infinitely more beautiful than most of his handsome broad grins. “Bought some good wax to replace the tin I took ‘fore I went.”

Prowl thought about it. “Maybe later,” he said, holding out his hand. “But right now, just stay here with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feels infected my porn story. How inconvenient. 
> 
> (A Public Health Message from FLC - the delay is due to real life kicking my arse via the keyworker lifestyle. Wash your hands, wear your masks and stay alert! I don't want you in my hospital, and, trust me, you don't want to be there either. My bedside manner under stress is not unlike Ratchet.)


End file.
